Melanie Ezell's big closet ultimate writer's challenge — Written From The Heart

Thanks to Wren Erendae Phoenix for editing/proofing.

I made my way down to Jen’s hall of residence, resisting the urge to skip but somehow unaware that I was holding an imaginary clutch purse in front of me. Jen must have seen me coming as she was outside waiting as I approached. She had a quietly triumphant grin on her face and as I walk up to her she fell into step beside me.

“So Richard,” she began, “what are you wearing today?”

Melanie Ezell's big closet ultimate writer's challenge — Written From The Heart

Maybe a bit of a cheat since I already wrote 74,000 words, but if I top 115k by the end it should still count, right?

Thanks to Wren Erendae Phoenix for editing/proofing.

Richard — University Student

Not a fan of hypnotists, but is persuaded to go to a show at the student bar.

Gets invited up on stage where things get interesting.

Thanks to Wren Erendae Phoenix for the edit/proof, and for the constant prods to get this started.

Melanie Ezell's big closet ultimate writer's challenge — L337

1337 words according to Word and a manual count (don't trust OpenOffice) from below the break.

Come on, that's short enough you shouldn't need a synopsis.

It's one year to the day since I published my first story on BCTS. By way of celebration, here's something a little different from my usual fare, also in response to one of the Melanie Ezell challenges (Who I am).

So I went a little over the word limit on this one. Frankly my dears, I don't give a sh... hang on, that's not right...

It is a bit of a disjointed ramble this, but I hope it sparks off a few ideas. Please remember in reading it that it is never my intention to be hurtful, and if there is anything in this offering that rubs raw, please accept my apologies and assurance that I never meant it that way.

In time the unusual bequest pushes him to face some hidden truths inside himself, and from there face off against some people who don't want to accept that such truths should exist.

There is some small reference to violence in this, but nothing explicit

Melanie Ezell's big closet ultimate writer's challenge — The Diary of Hortense

Ding dong the witch is dead? Not quite like that.

There's this delivery guy at the door with a package from some solicitors I've never heard of. Hortense Willikins? Wasn't she that old lady who lived down the road? And why on Earth would she leave me an empty journal in her will?

Lips brushed ever so lightly, ever so briefly, but enough. I felt the power enter me again, felt the familiar dizzy sensation, felt myself growing, straining the fabric of my clothes. The comforting weight of my hair receded. Delicate nylon stretched and tore, the straps of my sandals snapped and along with them the last of my strength. I sagged to my knees, Ken's knees. Lifted my hands to my face, Ken's hands, Ken's face. I opened my mouth to cry out, but no sound would come. Inside something broke and what poured out and spread through every fibre of my being was a most profound and utter sense of loss that went beyond imagining.

Hot and steamy moments ahead, but nothing that nasty this time.

“You were wrong, and now I have the most delicious of revenges for you. You wanted to change me into a girl against my will, not let me do the same for you. Let me turn you back into the man you once were.”

I was struck by paralysing terror as he moved in towards me, his lips parted slightly in preparation for the kiss I knew would shatter all the wonders and delights my new life had brought me.

CAUTION: Some readers have said they found parts of this chapter disturbing. please exercise caution, and sorry for the late warning notice on this one.
The representative took a step closer, standing head and shoulders taller than me and giving me a close up look of his broad chest and two arms that were bigger around than my thighs. I let out a shuddering breath. I was tempted to reason with him, but some instinct told me to hold off, that this would be better if the initiative came from him; from them. I swallowed down my growing fear and slowly looked up into hazel eyes and finely chiselled features. Come on Liz, something to break the ice. Could that work? I took a chance and forced a quavering smile.

“You know it's a damn shame you're not straight.”

It was raining now. I had the windscreen wipers on, but it was hard to tell if my blurred vision was caused by raindrops on glass or the tears which continued to flow. Suddenly there were lights ahead of me. Red lights and the tall yellow shape of a lorry, too close. I jammed on my brakes. An ugly laughter drifted across my awareness and one last phrase.

“You're mine.”

CAUTION: This chapter contains a short description of police photographs which may be unsettling

“I'm sorry Miss Raeburn. We did everything we could, but it just seemed like she gave up.”

I nodded. A fresh tear trickled down my cheek and I brushed it away. I'd thought I had run out of them.

“There's another thing. The police are here. I'm afraid they want a word with you.

Stephanie survived her first week at school, but only just. She was definitely falling apart towards the end, and probably would have if it hadn't been for Portia. Still it'll probably be easier to put him/her back together the way he/she was meant to be now.

There are still quite a few loose ends left to tie up, not least amongst them being what will happen when the new Stevie turns up at School on Monday morning.

Monday morning changed a lot of things for Steven. Every boy in the school was jealous of the attention he had received from Portia and her friends, and none of them were standing by him. It was just as well then that more and more girls were becoming friendly with him, except that they were only interested in the girly side of him…

CAUTION: There are some references to rape and miscarriage in this chapter

“Well perhaps you will next time then. Anyway I hope you don't have plans for tonight because as of now you're lined up for a mainstream talk show interview at nine. I'm not sure where at the moment as both ITV and the BBC are bidding for you, and I need to talk to Karen to find out how she wants to handle things.

“If I were you I'd clear my diary for the rest of the week too, as I suspect there'll be a few more offers in the pipeline. Wear something nice tonight won't you dear? I'll arrange for a car to pick you up at eight.”

A long bath and half a mug of hot chocolate later, I was sitting on the sofa, absent-mindedly scratching Toby behind the ears when the phone rang. I thought about screening it for a moment, but decided not to.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it's er Mike.”

Guys just don’t go for secretarial jobs. I mean however much we strive for equality, in the real world the best qualifications for such work are the ones nature gave you — assuming of course you’re young, female and stacked like an overloaded forklift.

James Sandford was none of these. Going on fifty, recently out of work and running out of cash, he was desperate. Desperate enough that when he saw the advert — no discrimination, no prior experience needed — he figured it was worth a shot, even though he was the only guy there.

The thing is when you work in a leading high tech solutions company even a secretarial job isn’t necessarily what you’d expect…